


You Ran Off Without Me Again

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Retirementlock, john lock, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:06:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were happy for a long time, in London then in Sussex.  But everything ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Ran Off Without Me Again

His eyes had gotten so bad he could barely see as he scribbled the inscription on the inside cover of the leather-bound manuscript, even with his reading glasses on. His hand shook with the effort of writing the brief dedication. Molly’s daughter had had the loose pages bound and presented as an anniversary gift. “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by John H. Watson, MD, embossed in gold script on the front. That was what, oh, five weeks ago? Four?

He couldn’t be bothered to remember anymore. Besides, he was so tired today.

The funeral had been small and simple, if only because so many of their friends had already passed away. Only Molly and her children, now grown with children of their own, Bill Wiggins and his fourth (or fifth) wife, and surprisingly, Sally Donovan. Greg had died two years prior, Molly by his side. Mycroft the year before that. Sherlock had been devastated by the loss of his big brother, rubbish though he was.

And now they were one less, again. Sherlock had been relatively hearty until a short time before the very end. It was around their anniversary that John had begun to notice him slowing down for real. He stopped fidgeting, choosing to spend more time still, moving with effort only when he had to. Then, one morning six days ago, John had awoken to find Sherlock’s eyes on him. They were still as sharp and clear as the day he had met him.

_“S’lock? What’s wrong?”_

_“Nothing. Just observing.”_

_“Mmm…” Daylight was streaming through the bedroom window, casting shapes on the quilt. John had rolled over and looked at the clock. Almost seven am. “Might as well get up.” His old bones creaked as he pushed back the linens. “Tea or coffee?”_

_“Whatever you decide.” Sherlock’s voice was softer than usual; heavy with what John had assumed was sleep at the time._

_“John?”_

_“Yes, love?” When John had turned back to look at his husband, his head was on the pillow John had previously vacated, eyes closed and peace written on his face._

_“Hurry, John. And thank you.”_

_John just smiled and dragged his old body to the kitchen. When he returned ten minutes later with their tea and a tray of toast, he found Sherlock lifeless on his pillow._

Six days ago. Now Sherlock was in the ground, which would grow cold as the seasons changed. John shivered at the thought. At least it was their ground, on the parcel of land in Sussex that had held their home and their bees and their entire life for the past twenty-five years. Twenty-five good years, the closing chapter on two lives woven into one life, and some frankly ridiculous adventures.

John set the book in his lap and reached to the small table for his tea. The small cup felt surprisingly heavy in his hand. Tired. As he struggled to reach back to the table, John could almost see Sherlock working amongst the hives in the distance, the lazy buzz of worker bees gathering honey his soundtrack.

John settled back in the chair, a wool blanket across his old, withered legs. So tired. He would close his eyes for just a moment, then watch the sunset. It was a bit chilly out, a cool breeze heralding the end of summer, but John felt surprisingly warm. He had a fleeting thought that more time had passed than he realized, that his tea would soon be cold. But he liked it out here, and he wanted to watch the sun set. He would spend hours sitting under their tree as the sun began to dip, on their land, watching Sherlock run around as manic and frenzied as the day he met him.

“You ran off without me again, you tit,” John chuckled.

“What was that, John?” Sherlock turned and headed towards John’s chair under the tree, lifting the netting from his face. He always looked so ridiculous in his beekeeping garb, although lately it seemed he only ever wore the hat.

“I said, ‘you ran off without me again, you tit,’” John sat up and shot his husband his good-natured A Bit Not Good look.

“It’s hardly my fault you can’t keep up, John. I told you to hurry.”

“I suppose you did.”

“Obviously, John. Now put this on, I have to show you something.” And Sherlock thrust a hat at John, then turned back towards his hives.

“Coming, coming,” John rolled his eyes, then obediently put the hat on as he pushed himself out of the chair to follow.

The tea was cold, and the sun had set beyond the horizon. The bees had long since stopped buzzing. But John didn’t know it. They would find him nestled in his chair, with a book in his lap open to a heartfelt dedication:

**“He told me once that he wasn’t a hero, but he was a hero to me and many others. This is the story of the best man and most human human being I’ve ever known. He was truly extraordinary in every way, and I owe him so much for allowing me to share the adventure of his life. ~ John H. Watson, MD”**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Practice for the Heart (http://practicefortheheart.tumblr.com/) who prompted this drabble.


End file.
